The night was still uncompromisingly dark but as they made their way back toward the convoy one of the lookouts spotted a light. Lorenz looked through his binoculars and saw that its source was a carbon arc lamp being aimed from the deck of a destroyer at a listing, burned-out carcass. Somewhere inside the wreck, a fire reignited and made the windows of the superstructure glow. The destroyer was clearly searching for survivors, although Lorenz couldn’t see any.
‘Is that our steamer?’ asked Falk. ‘The one we attacked? Or did U-112 do this?’
‘It’s difficult to say,’ said Lorenz. ‘We’ll have to ask headquarters.’
They stopped at a distance of approximately 800 meters from the rescue operation. The destroyer was completely unaware of their approach.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Falk in a hushed voice.
The officers became restive as they waited for Lorenz’s tardy answer. ‘There’s nothing more to accomplish here.’
‘But the steamer, Kaleun,’ said Falk. ‘It’s offering an easy broadside.’ He glanced nervously at Pullman.
Ignoring Falk’s remark, Lorenz spoke into the communications pipe. ‘Turn the boat around. Ahead slow.’
‘Herr Kaleun,’ said Pullman. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Aren’t we obliged to deliver a coup de grâce?’
‘No — we are not.’
‘But in the handbook it says quite clearly—’
‘I don’t care what the fucking handbook says!’
Pullman bridled. ‘I was merely seeking clarification, Herr Kaleun.’
‘We’re turning around. Is that clear enough? And don’t ever question my judgment on my bridge again or I’ll have you thrown over the side.’
The men on the bridge stiffened as they awaited the outcome of the altercation. After a long silence Pullman raised his hand and said, ‘Permission to leave the bridge?’
‘Granted,’ Lorenz replied, adding under his breath: ‘With great pleasure.’
When Pullman had gone Falk whispered. ‘Has he gone to make notes?’
‘That’s very likely,’ said Lorenz.
‘Aren’t you worried?’
‘When we’ve finished this patrol and we’re cruising through the Goulet de Brest then I’ll start worrying. Right now, that feels very distant.’
The sea resembled the bleak desolation of a lava plain, a rocky mantle or crust. U-330 was traveling slowly, producing a trenchlike wake, as though its propellers were cutting a continuous channel out of basalt. Diesel fumes rose from the gratings and embroidered the air with black braids that unraveled to form a grey veil. The engine noise became louder and softer when the exhaust vents dipped in and out of the water.
‘Odd,’ said Pullman. ‘We haven’t been at sea for very long but—’
‘It feels like forever,’ Lorenz interrupted.
‘Yes. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I have no idea what day it is.’
‘That’s because it doesn’t matter. Not really. One day is much like the next. And when we’re under the water you can’t tell night from day.’
The boat climbed up a freakishly large wave and slid down the other side. When the deck was horizontal again, Pullman asked, casually: ‘What are your thoughts on the Lion’s strategy? Do you think we should be doing things differently?’
‘I don’t have any thoughts on the matter,’ Lorenz replied.
‘But surely you must have an opinion, Herr Kaleun?’
‘We all have opinions…’ Pullman was expecting Lorenz to continue, but the commander pushed his cap back and walked away.
‘I am interested in what you think,’ he persisted.
‘I try not to,’ said Lorenz flatly.
Juhl glanced at Voigt and grinned.
Pullman raised his camera and took a close-up of Arnold, who was wearing a woolen hat with a large bobble on top. The self-conscious sailor adopted a heroic expression that was irretrievably undermined by his headgear. Play acting was superseded by authentic emotion when Arnold’s features suddenly convulsed and he screamed, ‘Aircraft astern!’ Lorenz looked up, judged that they had just enough time to escape and called ‘Alarm!’ As he clambered into the tower he saw two fighter aircraft swooping in from the opposite direction. There was a burst of machine-gun fire as he closed the hatch and the boat had barely submerged when the first explosion almost rolled U-330 on its side.
Lorenz landed in a chaotic control room where men were sprawled on the matting, foodstuffs were flying through the air, and glass was shattering. The angle of descent was so steep he was thrown against the forward bulkhead. Another explosion shook the hull and it was more violent than anything he had ever experienced. It seemed implausible that so much power could be unleashed from a device made by mere mortals, that so much energy could be disciplined and contained in a small canister. The boat seemed to be spinning around in a vortex caused by an upheaval of cosmic proportions: collision with the moon or the death of the sun. A third and final explosion pushed the bow down and accelerated the boat’s descent. Graf had managed to remain upright by holding onto the periscope halyard, and he was requesting more speed in order to increase pressure on the hydroplanes. He hadn’t registered that the motors had stopped humming. The forward hydroplane operator, his face incandescent with fear, turned and croaked: ‘It’s not responding — it’s jammed.’ From his position on the deck, Lorenz could see the needle on the manometer moving around the dial at an unprecedented speed.
Forty-five meters, fifty meters, sixty meters, seventy meters…
‘All hands aft,’ yelled Graf. The usual stampede did not ensue. Only a few men managed to stand and stumble up the incline toward the stern.
Several voices in different locations were calling out, ‘breach!’
‘She’s out of control!’ shouted Graf. Then, facing his supine commander, he repeated more evenly, ‘Kaleun, we’re out of control.’ His words seemed to travel through the boat in all directions, silencing every compartment. Apart from the sound of trickling water nothing could be heard except men breathing heavily. Lorenz felt as if he were falling through space. The manometer needle confirmed their predicament: ninety meters, one hundred meters, one hundred and ten meters…
So, thought Lorenz. This is it. He had never truly believed that he would survive the war and now he would only have to endure it for a few more seconds before the ribs of the boat buckled and the deck-plates and the overhead came together. The waiting had come to an end.
One hundred and eighty meters, one hundred and ninety meters…
Rivets shot across the control room and jets of water filled the bilges.
An apprentice mechanic was on his knees, mewling softly. Lorenz thought he could hear the boy repeating the word ‘Mother.’ They were no longer a community of fate, a band of brothers, or proud Germans, but scared children. Personas were slipping like poorly tailored disguises. This is where it all breaks down, thought Lorenz. This is how we die. A man in the petty officers’ quarters had started to wail an inarticulate plea to St Nicholas.
One hundred and ninety, two hundred, two hundred and ten…
Lorenz wanted to get it over with: he wanted the shell plating to peel open like a can of sardines and the cold black ocean to release him from all the terror and the pain and the guilt.